. the Seaview Company, Hojan and Rajah, whatever that may be. . . hell, there could be a couple of
hundred accounts. This Cohen is a genius. If he had to, he could probably legitimately account for
most of the money going into these pyramids.”
“There‟s got to be a reason for going to all that trouble,” I said. “There‟s got to be some skimming
accounts, or payoff accounts.”
“Yeah, I agree,” he said. “But what are they? We‟re looking at one pyramid off another here. Creative
bookkeeping compounded by creative computer techno logy. So maybe some of these accounts are
payoff accounts or skim accounts; there‟s no way to tell which ones.”
Stick was right. The system, although devious, was not illegal. What was illegal was using the bank t
channel illegal monies from gambling, prostitution, narcotics,, and whatever else, into legitimate
accounts and then siphoning off some of those accounts without reporting the income to the IRS. The
big question was how they were doing it.
“We‟ll never unravel it all without a key list of all their accounts,” said the Stick.
I said, “Stick, we‟re close to nailing them. Cohen must have this defined somewhere. It‟s far too
complex to keep in his head.”
“Probably in a computer of his own,” said Stick. “And there‟s no way we can access a private
terminal.”
“Then one damn thing is for sure,” I said. “We‟ve got to keep Cohen alive. He‟s got the key to the
puzzle.”
“Wanna put „em under protective custody?” Stick said. “I can‟t think of anything else to do. We‟re
baby-sitting „em around the clock now.”
“Yeah, and so far it hasn‟t helped any of them,” I said.
There was one other possible answer. We could offer to put Cohen in the witness protection program
if he would cooperate with us. And I know what my answer to that proposal would be if I were
Cohen. I‟d tell me to get stuffed.
60
THE COCKTAIL HOUR
I suppose the most spectacular view in town comes with the tallest building—that‟s if you have the
money to make the view worthwhile. Babs Thomas had them both and the taste to do it right. The
penthouse was like a glass box surrounded by gardens. Glass walls everywhere: the living room,
bedrooms, kitchen, even the bathrooms. Floor-to-ceiling drapes provided whatever privacy was
necessary, although the only danger of eavesdroppers seemed to be from low-flying aircraft.
The penthouse was lit by slender tapers, an effect both unusual and stunning, since the glass walls
reflected every flickering pinpoint and then re-reflected it, over and over, bathing the rooms in a soft,
yellow glow.
There were at least thirty couples there, Babs‟ idea of a few friends, all of them old-monied and well
pedigreed. I assume only a death in the family would have been a suitable excuse for missing the
soiree. That or, as in the case of Charles Seaborn, the bank examiners.
Babs, a vision in yellow silk wearing a white hat with a brim wide enough to roller-skate around,
swept over to me as I entered, pulled me into a neutral corner, and filled in my dance card for me,
advising me on who was worth talking to and whom to skip.
My top priority was to meet the remaining members of the infamous Committee.
Arthur Logan, the lawyer, was forty and looked sixty. Poor posture made him appear almost
humpbacked, his face was pinched into a perpetual frown, and his eyes were paranoiacally intense and
busy, like a man who expects to hear bad news at every turn. Ten minutes of conversation proved him
to be as senile in mind as in body, a man so fanatically conservative that even Calvin Coolidge would
have found him an anachronism. His wife, also singularly unattractive, appeared to have lost her chin
somewhere along the way. She complemented him by smiling and keeping her mouth shut.
On the other hand, Roger Suffer, the big-shot journalist, was just the opposite, the epitome of the
young man on the go. His handshake was painfully sincere, his gaze intense, his attitude open. He
talked to me for five minutes before he figured out I wasn‟t there to invest money in Dunetown, then
his gaze became less intense and began to wander from one female rear end to the other. His wife,
who let inc know she was the best tennis player at the club thirty seconds after we met, was busy
flirting with the men in the room.
Charming.
No wonder the city had fallen prey to Tagliani. Dutch had said it the night I arrived. Dunetown had
been entrusted to wimps. Were they involved with Seaborn and Cohen?
Doe caught me by surprise. I was ordering a drink when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and she
was standing there. My knees started to wobble again.
The big surprise was that Chief was with her.
He sat tall and erect in his wheelchair, and while time seemed to have taken its toll, the old man still
looked like everybody‟s grandfather ought to look, his white hair cresting a craggy face that was
indomitable.
I knew the Findley background well. I should have, it was a story I had heard repeated often enough.
Chief‟s grandfather, Sean, an Irish collier, had emigrated to Dunetown, won a waterfront tavern in a
card game and parlayed that into the city‟s first million. After that it was cotton, banking, real estate,
God knows what else. The same flint that had fired old man Sean had also struck wit and wisdom in
every crevice of Chief‟s face and his eyes were as fiery and intense as ever. Only his body seemed to
be failing him.
“Hello, Chief,” I said. “Been a long time.”
“Yes,” he said, “and a sad one.”
I knew the breed well enough to know that Chief would not mention Teddy or my unanswered letter.
Apologies come hard and infrequently to men like that; they‟re not prone to admitting mistakes. Or
maybe Chief just didn‟t see it the way I did; maybe he had just closed the book on that chapter.
“Doe tells me you‟re in government service,” he said, with obvious sincerity. “That‟s quite
admirable.”
That was the end of our conversation. A moment later someone pushed past me to pay homage to the
old warrior, and then someone else, and someone else, until I was gradually edged out of the circle.
Doe eased her way to my side. I could feel the sexual electricity humming around her. Time had not
changed one thing—they were still the lightning people.
“Where‟s Harry?” I asked.
“He cancelled out at the last minute. There was an accident at the track. Some horses were killed.”
“I know, I was there.”
“It must‟ve been just horrible,” she said, then added hurriedly, “Albert‟s coming in ten minutes to take
Chief home. I‟ll meet you out on the terrace after he leaves.‟ She turned abruptly and wormed her way
back into the circle of sycophants.
Suddenly I was alone and staring across the room at Sam Donleavy. I shouldered my way toward him
through the crowd, catching snippets of conversation along the way. The women cheeped like
sparrows, while the men sounded more like trumpeting elephants. Donleavy seemed relieved by my
company.
“It‟s hot in here. Let‟s step out on the terrace and get some air,” he suggested.
Lightning was playing in the clouds south of the city and the wind was jangling a delicate glass wind
chime near the door. You could feel rain in the air.
“We still on for lunch tomorrow?” I asked, by way of starting the conversation.
“Looking forward to it,” he said. “I heard about the Lukatis boy. A damn shame.”